Project: Hyde
by draxisthename
Summary: Keith is just an ordinary teenager, but the other person living in his mind is not. When he's kidnapped for illegal testing, he finds himself being the test subject for project Hyde. Now he has a mutant in his head, created to be the ultimate war machine. When the laboratory releases him, he admits himself into Bayville Asylum, where a man named Charles Xavier begins to visit him.
1. Chapter 1

He pulled the hood of his jacket over his face against the cold wind of an early winter. The puddles on the street, only partially frozen over, crunched underfoot as he made his way along down a quiet sidewalk, not too far away from the local park. Bug-filled street lamps lit the ground, illuminating the thin, somewhat grungy looking ice with a yellowish glow. Minnesota was none too kind in the months of winter and late fall, and even spring mornings would often be dosed with their share of ice-encased flower buds.

The occasional car driving past would send up a spray of icy water, to which the lone walker would quickly turn his back to. As a result of this action, his jacket, which _had_ been light gray, was now splattered with mud. The general dampness of the coat made him think that he'd probably be warmer without it, but his mother's reaction should he come home with it off made him decide it would probably be for the best that he kept it on, cold or no._  
_

His name was Keith, Keith Malcolm Stewart, and he was, at that very moment, regretting the complacency of his life. He was fifteen, attending a private school simply for the reason of his parents being able to afford one. He dressed in nice clothes, hung out with nice people, and was banned from nearly every sport but baseball. He wouldn't say that his family was rich, but neither were they poor. They were slightly above average income and, with only him and his younger brother, there really wasn't much money needed to be spent. His life, while boring and generally uneventful, was comfy and peaceful, and he was told he should be happy with it. But he wasn't.

He had been able to deal with the dress code his parents had enforced, it was fairly basic; clean clothes, unwrinkled blue jeans, shoes without scuff marks, etcetera. It was when his parents began to bar who he could hang around that he started to have problems. Jared was a nice guy, albeit a nice guy with spiked hair, a skateboard, and a gig on the high school football team that would easily earn him a scholarship if he worked at it. Keith's parents had taken issue with him and barred Keith from seeing him. It wasn't fair, in Keith's opinion, and it had gotten to the point where every disagreement turned into a screaming match that ultimately resulted in the slamming of doors and exchanging of angry glares over the breakfast table.

Keith shoved his hands in his pockets and studied the chipped sidewalk intensely. He was late, twenty-three minutes late, to be exact. It was at this moment that he would normally start running down the road, sneak into his house and pretend to have been in bed. However, he'd had a bad day, and, although he wouldn't admit it to himself, he was looking for a fight.

A black van appeared on the tip of the hill behind him and he turned the opposite way, bracing himself for the inevitable spray of freezing cold rainwater. However, it didn't happen. Instead, he heard the screeching sound as the driver of the van furiously applied the brakes, sliding the car out so that it blocked the middle of the road.

"What the heck?" Keith muttered, squinting his eyes as he examined the van.

Five men, dressed completely in black poured out of the car like in the action movies or crime shows he saw on TV. All had reflective masks covering their faces, tactical vests and massive guns. At first he thought it was merely a raid on one of the houses, but when the guns started turning in his direction, Keith knew it was time to run.

He dug his heels in, running as fast as he could. With eight years of baseball, he was fast, but not as fast as his pursuers. Something slammed into his shoulder. It felt like a wasp that wouldn't stop stinging him. His vision started to blur and his movements felt sluggish. He shook his head and kept running. He had to get away from these people. He felt impact as another one of the projectiles hit his lower back. His pace slowed and he doggedly took a few steps before crumpling to his feet.

"Police," he croaked, his throat feeling dry and raspy. "Police. Someone."

The men were closing in on him fast. He pulled himself to his feet and managed a few more feet before a final sting hit him in the back and pulled him to the ground. His vision blurred, completely out of focus now. He fought, trying to stay awake, but whatever they had shot him with won out. The men picked him up and tossed him in the back of the van. The hazy yellow light of the street lamps were the last things he saw as the doors closed and he slipped deep into unconsciousness.

* * *

The X-Men sat around the table, eating a late dinner after having a long day chocked full of every session Logan could possibly have imagined. Someone had keyed his motorcycle and, until he found out who did it, he intended on making them all suffer.

They were, of course, suffering. When Logan set out to do something, he usually accomplished it. The students were sore, tired, and depressed in knowing that they would most likely have to do it all again tomorrow; unless the perpetrator confessed, which, course would never happen. Who would want to face Logan's wrath alone? Not only Logan's wrath, but also the wrath of the many recruits who were forced to go through with the exercises. It would be weeks before a confession was made.

"Please pass the potatoes," said Kurt, who looked as though he was about to pass out on his plate.

Kitty moaned. "I don't think I can. My arms feel like noodles."

Logan grunted and picked at his food. He was watching them all like a hawk, trying to find the guilty party. "Get used to it, bubs. You're doing this everyday 'till someone admits it was them."

"What if someone admits just to ease our suffering?" Jamie said in his usual cheerful voice, albeit a slightly more weary sounding version. He was quite obviously suggesting that the 'someone' who would volunteer to take the blame would not be him.

Evan looked at Logan, who reciprocated with a throaty growl. "Yeah, kid," he said to Jamie. "Good luck with that one."

Jamie sighed. "It was worth a shot."

Professor Xavier came into the room, seemingly lost in thought.

"Something on your mind, Professor?" asked Scott. "Pick something up on Cerebro?"

"Nothing any more different than usual. The number of mutants is quickly going up, as you know. I've even found several new mutants in the Bayville area. But, no, that's not what's on my mind. I was looking through the security footage from last night and, apparently, members of the brotherhood managed to sneak past our security system. They didn't steal anything of particular value. All that I saw them do on the tape was key Logan's motorcycle and a couple of the XTVs."

The entire company around the table collapsed in a collective sigh, except for Bobby, who spread his hands and grinned.

"I told you it wasn't me," he said.

Logan just grimaced and clenched his fists tightly. "My motorcycle..."

"How could the Brotherhood get past our security system?" asked Scott.

The Professor shook his head. "That's just it, Scott. I don't have the slightest idea."

Logan placed his silverware back on the table and pushed out his chair, suddenly having lost his appetite. "Whatever the case is, sounds like it's high time for an upgrade. If I catch them around my motorcycle again..." His claws shot out and each of the recruits around the table were feeling quite glad that they had been cleared of the crime.

Unfortunately, Bobby couldn't resist a jab at Logan. "Guess you owe us an apology," he said.

Logan looked over his shoulder and shot him a glare that could wither flowers. "Don't press your luck, bub."

"Right," Bobby said, losing quite a bit of his earlier confidence. "G'night, Logan."

The only response he heard was a muttered rant containing the phrase "kids these days."


	2. Chapter 2

He blinked his eyes slowly as they unclouded and his vision cleared. They'd taken his clothes sometime when he was unconscious and he was now lying on some cold, metal surface in a pair of black shorts. His exposed chest was cold and goosebumps prickled along his skin. Leather straps bound his arms and legs down to the table as tight as they could go. He tugged at them, but to no avail.

"He's up," said a voice, and a man in a scrub-colored surgical mask loomed over him with an uncomfortably long needle.

"Right. Test subject thirty-seven, Project: Hyde. Operation commences 5:36 am."

Operation? Keith didn't like the sound of that. He pulled as hard as he could against the straps desperate to escape.

"Hey, hey, hey," said the man, grabbing his arm and jabbing that massive needle in. "Calm down." Then to his colleague, "Okay. we're good to go."

Keith's arms felt like jelly, though jelly probably the best word for it. He knew he had arms. He could see his arms. He just couldn't move them no matter how hard he tried. Same thing with his legs. He was completely conscious, but, at the same time, completely immobile and numb. Utterly defenseless and on an operating table in who-knew-where, he'd never been so scared in his entire life.

He forced his panicked mind to try and piece his situation together. When he'd been walking home, it had been about 10:30. From what the man standing over him had said, it was now 5:36 in the morning. He had no clue how long he'd been out. For the night? For an entire day? A week, maybe? He had no way of knowing.

The man picked up a scalpel and held it up in the light, inspecting it.

"What... what are you doing to me?" he said, his voice slurring over his words.

The man glanced down. "My name is Jethro. I'll be operating on you. You'll be fine."

"You said I was test subject... thirty-three? What happened to the other ones?"

Jethro looked nervous. "Thirty-seven. This time we're right."

Keith felt frantic now, his panic increased by the fact that he could do nothing about it. "What about the last thirty-six times? Were you right then? Please, just let me up. I wanna go home. Please..."

Jethro wiped the scalpel off on a rag and gingerly pressed the blade to the start of Keith's hairline. "This time we're right," was all he said.

Keith shut his eyes tightly. He felt a slight tickle, but not the pain he'd been anticipating. Something felt wet on his forehead and he realized he was probably bleeding. He heard a buzzing noise and something covered his eyes.

"Okay. We're in. Where's the mutatio animi?" Keith heard Jethro snap his fingers impatiently. "Come on, we don't have all day."

Keith heard some squishy sounding noise. He didn't even want to know what it was. His stomach churned at the sound. Some sort of clayish substance was pressed against his forehead, then he heard a noise that sounded like an electric sander. They uncovered his eyes and he built up the courage to open them as they stitched his head back together.

And there it was, the mysterious operation finished in a matter of minutes. That wasn't that bad, he supposed. Of course, it was terrible, but it could have been worse. Was that really all there was to-?

The drug must have worn off or something stronger than it was reacting, because his back arched and his arms strained against the leather cuffs to the point where he heard the leather began to rip. Black flashed before his eyes, then a face, just barely distinguishable against the black. It was the face of a boy, similar to him, but different. He seemed smaller, and his hair was dark, contrasting Keith's blonde hair. His skin was pale, unlike Keith's skin which was eternally tinged with red due to the long days in the sun. His eyes were dark brown, nearly black, while Keith's were blue. Come to think of it, the boy didn't look very much like him at all. But at the same time...

"Hello," said the voice. Its words resounded through Keith's mind, bouncing off the walls of his brain. "They call me Hyde. You're stuck with me now. I suppose that means I'm stuck with you as well. Try not to die."

And with that bit of parting wisdom everything went black.

* * *

A new mutant flickered into being in the Bayville area and the Professor focused in, attempting to pull up a file. When Cerebro pulled up a screen full of fields marked unknown, the professor knew that something was wrong. Slowly, Cerebro started to piece little bits together; height, weight, physical features, and the like. Still, though, there was no name, no age, no information about this newly discovered mutant.

The Professor reached out mentally to Logan.

_Logan, we have a situation._

_Do we gear up?_ came the response.

The Professor studied the odd file. It could be a trap, or it could be someone in dire need of help. It would be a risk either way. Still, he didn't like the idea of sending in the X-Men blind. After several moments deliberation, he eased the tight grip he'd been keeping on the arms of his wheelchair.

_No,_ he said, finally. _Stand down._

_Got it, Charles._

Professor Xavier studied the screen and could only hope that he had made the right call.

* * *

He didn't have a name. They called him Hyde. That would work. Better than what the others got, which was simply a number. A quick tug a the restraints destroyed his bindings and he slid off the table, landing catlike on the floor. He cocked his head at the room's inhabitants, mainly doctors, a few men wearing suits and a couple of guards who were armed to the teeth but quaking.

Did he look terrifying? He glanced to his side where he saw a somewhat warped mirror on the wall. He had black hair, brown eyes, pale skin, and a small frame. He didn't feel terrifying. He looked fairly pathetic, in his opinion.

Hyde took a few steps forward, waiting to see whether this one would be another burn out. To see whether or not this subject would collapse and they'd put him back in a jar again until subject thirty-eight came around. No, this one felt different. More... stable. Permanent. The doctors had done a good job this time.

The quaking guards pointed their weapons at him, but he continued forward. What could they do to him? Sure, they might destroy this body, but Hyde would simply get packaged up in a brand new host. He was safe. More than that, he had nothing to lose.

"Move," he said. Then, when the guards stayed in their positions, he added, "Now."

Despite the protestations of the other members of the room, though Hyde noticed none of them rushed forward to stop him, the guards backed out of the way, clearing the doors.

Hyde pressed his hands, new hands, against the doors pushing them open and stepping out into the hallway. He breathed in a breath of new air. The alarm began to blare and the entire hallway flashed with red. He bared his teeth in a grin. Time to run. He was free. Free at last.

And he planned on staying that way.


	3. Chapter 3

Hyde leaned against a brick wall an an alley about a mile away from the laboratory. From his current position, he could see the people walking down the street. Ordinary people, perhaps going to school or work or whatever other pastime suited them. He wondered what types of things Thirty-Seven, the name he decided to call his host, did.

He noticed that the people going down the street were wearing a lot more clothes than he was. Hyde pushed against the wall and began walking down the sidewalk, catching stares from passersby, most likely wondering what a boy was doing walking down the street in winter in nothing but a pair of black shorts. It certainly was cold, but he liked it. It was something new to experience and it felt fantastic.

He stepped inside a store with the words "Thrift Store" in large flashing red letters. The store smelled odd, not like the overly sanitary lab; it was more like the smell of someone's idea of flowers. clothing hung on large metal racks that lined nearly the entire store. He walked to the first section and held up a little, pink frilly thing with lots of ruffles. He wasn't quite certain what it was, but he was fairly certain it was not the type of clothing he was supposed to wear.

Continuing on, he found a black tee shirt and a jacket, which he threw over his shoulder, and a pair of ripped up jeans. He walked into what seemed to be some sort of closet with a mirror and pulled on the clothing over his shorts. The pants were a bit too small and the shirt was a bit too big, but it would do.

He stepped out of the room and walked to the doors, ready to look around the city. He walked through the front doors and alarms immediately blared. Suddenly, the alarms began to blare. Panicked, Hyde took off running. A couple of men raced after him and yelled something he didn't catch.

He was faster than them, he realized. He would outdistance them with no problem. Then he careened to a stop as a motorcyclist jumped his bike onto the sidewalk directly in front of him. The motorcyclist scowled and lifted his helmet visor.

"Where do you think you're going, bub?"

Hyde stared up at him, silent.

"I asked you a question," the motorcyclist said.

"Stop!" yelled a voice from behind him. "The boy's a thief! Grab him!"

The motorcyclist's eyes narrowed. "What did you steal?"

Hyde ran turning down an alley. He heard the motorcycle's engine rev and the screeching of tires behind him. Was the man going to run him down?

His vision blurred and his knees buckled. Thirty-Seven was taking control.

* * *

Logan applied the brakes and let the bike skid to a stop. The alleged thief had collapsed in the middle of the alley. What the heck was the kid thinking?

The boy slowly rose to his feet and pulled back his jacket hood, revealing a mop of blonde hair and a sunburned face. He looked different somehow. Perhaps Logan had just gotten a bad look at him. The Wolverine sniffed; the boy smelled differently too.

"Where am I?" asked the boy. "What's going on? Who are you?"

"I'm not answering any of your questions until you answer mine. What did you steal?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Steal? I didn't steal..." he looked down at himself and looked confused. "Where am I?" he asked again.

"Bayville," Logan replied.

The boy still looked confused.

"New York."

"What? I can't be in New York! I was in Minnesota."

Logan raised an eyebrow. Minnesota? How'd the kid get to Bayville, then. He didn't even have any shoes. "I think you should come with me."

"Where?" he asked skeptically.

"The police station." He flipped his visor down. "Hop on."

* * *

"So, let me get this straight," said the cop. "We have footage of you stealing the clothes, witnesses seeing you steal the clothes, you're _wearing_ the clothes... And you're saying that you _didn't_ steal the clothes?"

The boy looked lost and hopelessly perplexed. Logan almost felt bad for him. Almost. Because of the boy, he now had to sit in the police station until the whole mess was resolved and would most likely have to testify in court.

"I'm telling you the truth!" the boy said.

"Right... What's your name?"

"Keith," he said. "I'm from Minnesota. I don't even know how I got here. Officer Davies, you have to believe me!"

"Actually, _Keith_. I don't have to believe anything. Evidence says you did it. I don't know how you made your hair look different or how you got a sunburn in a matter of minutes, but, frankly, I don't need to know." Officer Davies pressed a stamp onto a piece of paper. "You're guilty, end of story. We'll see you in court in two weeks."

Logan grumbled and dug around in his pocket, pulling out a twenty dollar bill. "Here, just take this, give it to the shop owner, and let the kid go. Saves us all a bunch of time."

"But the boy stole-"

"Yeah, and I'm paying for it. Sound good to you, bub?" He placed his hand on the desk menacingly.

The cop was at least a head shorter than him and a great deal smaller to boot. He would certainly know better than to pick a fight with Logan. Sure enough, the man nodded and took the twenty.

"We'll just forget about the incident. This time, that is. If this happens again..."

Keith jumped from his seat. "It won't happen again. I swear."

The officer looked like he was about to signal an escort, but Logan decided that he would do just as well as any cop. He had Keith come with him out of the office and down the hall, which had walls of a blaring orange shade, towards the large wooden doors at the exit of the police station. Logan knew the police station far too well. He had to bail out one of the recruits at least once a month. It was usually Bobby.

Keith had his thumbs through his belt loops and was staring at the floor, as if ashamed of his actions. The kid should be, Logan thought. Maybe if he felt bad about it, he'd think twice before doing it again.

They left the police station behind and Logan pulled out his wallet again, handing Keith another twenty.

"Take it, and actually pay for something when you buy it."

Keith looked dumbstruck. "Th-thanks. Sorry about all this. It won't happen again. I promise."

"Promising alone doesn't get stuff done, kid."

Keith looked down at his feet. "I won't let it happen again, sir. I'll make sure of it."


	4. Chapter 4

The elderly gentleman working the desk looked bored and quite disinterested in the whole affair. He had white hair, speckled with gray. His mustache had a piece of his breakfast in it, and his sweater bore a very large patch of coffee stain on the front. He glanced up from a white binder with several entries in black ink.

"Right," he said. "Tell me again why you want to be admitted into the asylum?"

Keith sighed. He didn't have time for this. What if the other person in his head woke up while he was here? He needed to just get in and get them to lock him up. He wasn't safe anymore. There was something in his head; someone, rather, and, until he assured himself that the person was under control, he wanted to be away from people and off the streets.

"Multiple Personality Disorder," he said. That was technically true. In his case it was more like Multiple Person Disorder, but he wasn't going to try explaining that.

"Sorry, kid. No can do. Where are your parents?"

"I'm eighteen," Keith lied. "Listen, I can pay cash. I just want to get off the street until I get a handle on this."

"You don't get a handle on MPD. I think we should call your parents... What's your name?"

Keith slapped a roll of bills he'd taken from his bank account down on the counter. "John Smith. How long will this get me?"

"That's not your name, son." The man's eyes softened, but Keith could see a greedy glint in them when he saw the money. "There's a hotel down the street," he began.

"I don't want a hotel!" Keith yelled, slamming his palms on the counter top angrily. His vision flashed back and he stumbled backwards. "Just lock me up. Please. I don't want to do anything stupid."

The man slid the money into his desk. "Welcome to Bayville Asylum, Mister Smith."

* * *

Professor Xavier drummed his fingers together in intense concentration. The new mutant he had sensed before was there and gone, flickering like a candle put next to an open window. It made no sense to him, and that was a rare occasion indeed. His first thought remained. It could be a trap. Magneto or Mystique; they could be toying with him, knowing that, eventually, he would send someone out to find out what it was. Still, on the slightest chance that it was really a mutant, a new, scared mutant who was feeling alone... So alone. He knew the feeling. He knew the fear. If it was a trap, the Professor wasn't certain that he would be able to avoid it.

The screen flickered again, the mutant was back. He seemed to be in one spot now. Before he'd been moving all over the place, running most likely. Was he trapped? The profile slowly began to build, typing information into itself at a somewhat steady pace.

_Name..._ The computer gave a lengthy pause at this before continuing. _Unknown_.

_Height... 5'9", Weight... 142 pounds, Gender... Male, Age..._ The Professor perked up. Had Cerebro figured out the mutant's age? He braced himself for the "Unknown" that he expected to follow, but, instead, he got an answer that surprised him. _19 hours, 17 minutes, 21 seconds. _Was the boy an infant? An image of the boy slowly began piecing itself together.

His thoughts were interrupted by Logan striding into the room with a steaming cup of coffee. The Professor glanced over his shoulder at him and Logan gave an apologetic smirk.

"Sorry, forgot to knock."

The Professor sighed and returned his gaze to the Cerebro screen. "It's not important now, Logan. Still, I'd appreciate it if you'd make more of an effort."

Logan mumbled a reply that sounded like agreement. He glanced up at the screen as well. "That the one that got you worried, Charles?"

He drew his eyebrows together. "They all have me worried."

"You and me both," said Logan. He paused and set his coffee on the ground beside him. "I know that kid."

"You do?" Surprises seemed to abound on this particular day.

Logan nodded, staring intently at the face the computer had managed to construct. The boy looked young, not as young as the computer said he was, but young. "He robbed a thrift store this morning. He looked like that when he came out, but then... It sounds crazy, Charles, but you gotta believe me on this. He changed. Looked like that one minute, runs into an alley and the next thing I know he's a blonde kid, taller, a bit broader, with skin red as a lobster."

"Are we looking for a shape shifter?" he asked, half to Logan and half to himself.

Logan grunted. "If we are it's a stupid one. Still got caught. I bailed him out of the mess, lucky for him. Kept insisting he didn't do it. I gave him some cash on the way out and told him it better not happen again." He paused. "Do you want me to go find him?"

Again. The question he didn't know how to answer. He pondered it for a minute or two, an uneasy silence growing between the two. Finally, the Professor sighed and shook his head. "No."

* * *

Hyde threw himself against the door again, yelling as he put as much force as he could behind it. He bounced off the padded wall, landing unceremoniously on his backside. He had might as well face it, his small frame wasn't made for ramming into doors and busting them off the hinges. Perhaps there was another way out, but all he saw was the door and a barred window at least ten feet above him.

He slammed his fist onto the floor furiously. If Thirty-Seven was going to do something as stupid as imprisoning himself, he might at least be consulted. After all, Hyde had to share the body. It was only fair. However, Thirty-Seven didn't seem especially concerned by the fact that he'd imprisoned Hyde in a padded cell without any express reason.

He rose to his feet and stalked back and forth, sulking at the hopeless mess he'd been placed in. A knock on the cell door jerked him away from his thoughts and his head snapped to the side to stare at the door.

"Move to the back of your cell, Mister Smith," came a voice from the hall outside.

"Why," Hyde asked, "Do you insist on calling me 'Mister Smith'?"

"Do you have a different name you'd prefer, Mister Smith?"

Hyde merely growled. "That's not my name."

"Then what is?"

He paused, then walked to the back of his cell. The door swung open and a security officer walked in.

"I don't have one," Hyde muttered.

The guard cast him a glance as he pulled out a pair of metal restraints, handcuffs, he believed. "Don't have what?"

"A name."

The guard shook his head slowly and fastened the cuffs around Hyde's wrists. "You really are crazy."


	5. Chapter 5

Hyde stared at his feet as he shuffled along down the hall at a slow pace. He glanced from side to side occasionally, taking in the loud screaming and maniacal laughter coming from the rooms on either side of him. Lunatics. those were the type of people who were meant to be in an asylum, not him. This place was meant for crazy people, and Hyde was not crazy. At least, not that he knew of.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, talking at the floor.

The guard didn't seem to hear him, or perhaps he didn't care, so Hyde asked again, this time louder.

"Where are you taking me?"

The guard glanced at him over his shoulder. "You have a visitor. Important fellow from what it seems."

A visitor? For him or for Thirty-Seven? Hyde chose his words carefully. "I wasn't expecting any visitors. What if I don't want to see this person?" He studied the man in front of him, watching for his reaction. To his surprise, the guard let out a roar of laughter.

"Well, good luck with getting him to leave! As I said, this man is obviously important. Even we can't get him to leave, and if we can't get him to leave, a little kid like you has got no shot at all."

"What's this man's name?" asked Hyde.

"You ask a lot of questions, don't you?"

Hyde shrugged. "There's a lot to learn."

The guard seemed satisfied with this answer. "Professor Charles Xavier. He runs some sort of institute, boarding school, something like that. It's weird. He's a bald guy in a wheelchair. You sure you don't know him?" A brief flash of suspicion flickered in his face and his expression darkened. "Did you run away from his institute, kid? Is that why he's here? Let me tell you, we don't need any trouble like that."

An unseen force tugged at the corners of Hyde's lips, bringing them up into a slight smirk. Was this man threatening him? "And if I did?"

The man snapped around and locked eyes with Hyde, perhaps in a primitive method of attempted intimidation. No words were spoken, just glaring, as though that might melt Hyde where he stood. Quite ridiculous. The man made a fist and pulled his hand up to strike Hyde. Finally. Now, this was interesting.

Hyde braced himself for the impact of the blow. He'd like to get hit a couple times, just to get Thirty-Seven shaken up a bit. Unfortunately, his plan was obliterated as the blow was halted before it even made contact.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow and Hyde smirked as he realized that the larger man was desperately trying to hit him. Hyde sidestepped the guard and found himself facing a bald man-the bald man, he supposed. The important one. Charles Xavier, not that the name meant anything to him.

Hyde lifted his hands with their cuffed wrists and spread his fingers as he supplied the man with a slight bow of greeting.

"Professor Charles Xavier, I presume?"

The man nodded. "Yes. If you're quite finished antagonizing that officer, I'd like to speak with you." He rubbed his forehead with two of his fingers and the officer who had been escorting Hyde stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet.

Hyde grinned. He liked this man. "Yes, sir."

Professor Xavier gave another nod and turned his wheelchair, which seemed to be controlled by some electronic force. Hyde followed after him; he had nowhere else to go and the man had most definitely peaked his interest. The professor led the way into a small room with a plaque that read "Interrogation". That didn't seem an especially bright place to go into, but it was better than the padded cell he'd be in otherwise.

"Your name is listed as John Smith," said the Professor.

Hyde frowned. "That's not my name."

"What is?"

"I don't have one. They called me Hyde. I call me Hyde. Hyde is my name now."

If the Professor was confused by this statement, he didn't show it. He simply rubbed his temple and continued with his questions. "Who are 'they'?"

"_They_," said Hyde, "Are the scientists who stuck me in the body of an idiot. With my luck, it was the one subject who didn't fall over dead."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying that isn't your body?"

Hyde shook his head. "It is now. I was created in a glass dish. Everything about me came from vials and needles." He tapped the side of his head. "I'm part of his brain now."

"What are you?"

"I am the result of Project Hyde. I am a different person, with a different appearance, a different personality. I'm the future. That's what they said at least. For all I know, I'm just a specimen." He blinked. "I believe I'm like you. What number is yours?"

"Pardon?"

"Your subject. I'm on thirty-seven."

"You've killed thirty-seven people?" The man lifted his hands to about shoulder height, two fingers out on each hand. What was his plan?

"I've been the cause of death of thirty-seven people. I can't help whose head they put me into."

"You feel no compassion for these people? They died. Does that not concern you?"

Hyde cocked his head to the side. "Should it?"

"Yes."

Hyde paused, mulling that thought over. "Professor Xavier, do you enjoy being lied to?"

"No, Hyde, I do not."

"Good. Then you will understand when I tell you that those people's deaths did not affect me. If this subject dropped dead now, I would not care. I would simply be inserted into another mind and life would continue. If I cared, I'd be bogged down forever mourning the loss of someone's aunt's cousin's best friend's dad. I don't have time for that. Do you understand?"

The Professor frowned. "I believe I do." He lifted a hand to his temple and closed his eyes. "The guards are coming to return you back to your cell. I'll be meeting with you again soon."

Hyde tipped an imaginary hat. "Very well, sir. I'll be here." He looked at the dismal surroundings of the asylum and found himself oddly looking forward to Charles Xavier's next meeting with him. "Don't wait too long," he said.

Professor Xavier raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't dream of it."


End file.
